


My Sky Is Falling

by Snips95



Category: Strike Back
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Sad, Warning: Suicide, tear warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snips95/pseuds/Snips95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John Porter had sunk low. Just when he thought that he couldn’t get any lower, something else happened that crushed his soul just a little bit more."</p>
<p>A look at what could have happened if John Porter wasn't such a stubborn bastard and gave up on any hope that his life could get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sky Is Falling

**Author's Note:**

> This was something that I thought up while watching the first episode of Strike Back. Grab a box of tissues because it is REALLY angsty. This does deal with suicide, so if that is a trigger for you, please don't read this fic. Thanks for taking the time to read, and I hope you enjoy it! -Snips

John Porter had sunk low. Just when he thought that he couldn’t get any lower, something else happened that crushed his soul just a little bit more. It took all of his strength to get out of bed, to keep going to his utterly humiliating job that only served to continue his near meaningless existence. He was miserable, and only felt crushing guilt. There were many times that he wished he deserved one of the few bullets left in his pistol. But he knew that it was his fault that Mike and Keith were dead, Steve hospitalized for life, and that their families were in pain because of him. He didn’t deserve to die—he deserved to live in misery. And miserable he was. Diane had divorced him only six months after his discharged, and it hurt him so badly that he let her take everything, including full custody of Lexi. He lived in a small, dingy flat, barely surviving. He didn’t eat much anymore, either not having the appetite or the money. He worked graveyard shifts year round, not having a family to be affected by his work schedule and allowing the other men with families to have the more desirable shifts. John’s tone of authority had disappeared and he rarely spoke to anyone anymore, and when he did, it was in a quiet, shameful tone. He worked every holiday in hopes that it might take his mind off of the fact that he was alone. After work, he would drink until he passed out, praying that one day, he wouldn’t wake up. 

 

It was the day that Hugh Collinson had practically ran from him that John couldn’t take it anymore. Between the crushing guilt at having two friends dead and another brain dead and the shame that he couldn’t find decent work to support his family, John had broken down. His outlet was exercise, and he worked out until he could hardly support himself. When finished, he went to the phone in the hallway and called Diane’s number, hoping that maybe Lexi would be able to make time for him in her busy schedule. 

 

“Hey, it’s me,” he mumbled into the phone, embarrassed. “I promised her that I would call. Is she there?” 

 

“Yeah, hold on, John.” Diane sounded happy, sounded good. It only served to hurt John even further. 

 

“Hello?” Lexi sounded so grown up. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to her birthday party. He had missed her entire childhood, and now she was grown up. He loved his little girl more than anything, but he couldn’t please her, no matter how hard he tried. All he wanted was to be a good father, and he failed at that, too.

 

“Hey, Lexi,” he breathed, feeling tears well up in his eyes at her voice.

 

“It’s Alex,” she replied in a bored tone. This conversation was going just about as well as the last ones he’d had with her over the past seven years. He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his too-long hair. 

 

“Listen, I’m changing my shift this weekend so that I can come up—“

 

“I’ve already got plans for the weekend.” 

 

John sighed. Was he really such a bad father? What was he doing wrong? “Maybe another time then?” He suggested hopefully, but knowing that it was useless. His daughter wanted nothing to do with him—that was abundantly clear. “We could do something, just you and me—“

 

The line went dead and John sighed again, hanging up the phone, hating himself. If only he had tried harder as a father. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Worthless. He knew that’s what Lexi thought of him, what Diane thought of him, and what his own bloody country thought of him. His shoulder ached, serving as a reminder of his failure. 

 

He went back into his flat—just a small room with a single bed and an old TV, really—and saw something on the news that made his heart stop. It was a picture of the kid he’d saved in Iraq. He hurriedly flipped the channels and saw that the picture was all over the news channels. He had to speak to Collinson. 

 

A sergeant stopped him at the door and began screaming at him for him to leave. It didn’t take long for the scene to catch Hugh’s eye.

 

“Layla, calm down,” Collinson told her, placing a hand on her forearm. “He’s an old comrade.” He turned to John and faked a smile. “John. Come this way.”

 

John allowed himself to be led into a conference room with glass walls and sank into the chair, the massive file feeling heavier by the second. This was stupid. This had been a stupid idea—just like all of his other ones. God, why was he even here? Collinson couldn’t do anything for him. Nobody could anymore. What was the point?

 

“John, are you alright?” Collinson asked, seeing John’s face pale. 

 

John forced himself to nod. He told Collinson his theory, and was rewarded with a laugh to his face. 

 

“John, it’s been seven years, and you haven’t seen active duty since the Bratten extraction. I’ll have my men look into it, but I can’t get you involved,” Collinson told him. 

 

John looked down, his shoulders slumping. “I understand,” he muttered, leaving the room without a second glance at Collinson. He could feel Layla’s disgusted and disapproving stare on his back all the way out of the building. 

 

He walked home, having sold his car years ago to help pay the down payment on the flat. He was cold, shivering, but John didn’t acknowledge it. He took off his sweatshirt and sank onto the twin-sized bed that was much too short for him. He looked around—the small place was a mess, just like his life. He closed his eyes and held his head in his shaking hands. He couldn’t live this way anymore. He didn’t deserve peace, but it had been seven years—surely Mike and Keith and Steve would understand? They had been his best mates—they wouldn’t want him to be miserable, would they? Hadn’t he suffered enough? 

 

Images of their dead bodies and Steve’s broken one flashed through his mind, along with images of Lexi the last time he’d seen her, Diane in the lawyer’s office, Layla Thompson’s smirking face, and Collinson’s pitying gaze. It was as if a dam had broken inside his brain, and the memories and nightmares had become one, and he couldn’t stop the tears from falling. He wasn’t good enough—he never had been. 

 

After a few minutes, he lifted his head and found a small envelope and pen on the floor. He began to write. 

Diane: I wish I could have made you happy. I’m sorry that I wasn’t the husband you needed.

My darling Lexi: I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there for you. You deserved a better father. I love you. 

Collinson: I hope that you find Katy Dartmouth. Please forgive my earlier intrusion. 

Steve: I’m so sorry, mate. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this anymore. 

To whoever finds me: I’m sorry about the mess and the unpaid rent. There isn’t much in my bank account, but whatever is left can go to the clean up. 

 

John reread the letter several times and was somewhat satisfied—it was mediocre, just like everything else he’d done. He took a swig of the whiskey on his shelf, placed his silver wedding band on the note, and pulled out his old pistol. He unloaded the magazine, saw that it was full, and reloaded it. He cocked the gun and heard the round enter the chamber. He allowed his eyes to slide shut. He smiled—there would be no more suffering.

 

The authorities were called immediately after neighbors reported hearing the sound of a single gunshot. Collinson had already been on his way to apologize for Layla’s behavior, and made it there before the authorities. He found John’s body and the note, and wished up and down that he had come clean on the battleship the morning after the Bratten extraction. He swallowed the bile that threatened to make itself known and hurried from the room. He shut the door and waited for the police. When they offered to call Diane, Hugh had immediately volunteered. It was the least that he could do for John.

 

Collinson pulled up to the small house in the countryside and took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be pretty. He steeled himself and walked to the door.   
Alexandra was the one that opened it. She was clearly going through her rebellious teenager phase, with thick black eyeliner, short-cropped hair and iPod blaring hard metal music through the headphones. 

 

“Alexandra,” he greeted her calmly. “Is your mother home?” He could see Diane lingering in the other room, but it was the polite thing to ask.   
She nodded and invited him in. It didn’t take long for the seventeen year-old to put together the pieces. “It’s about my dad… isn’t it?” She asked. “Well, he’s never around, and I don’t want anything to do with him.”

 

“Alex,” Diane admonished, coming into the room. Her eyes widened at the sight of Collinson. “Hugh?” 

 

“Diane,” Collinson greeted after giving her a hug. “Can we sit down?”

 

Suddenly Alex didn’t seem so brave. “What happened?” She demanded in a wavering tone.

 

“Alex, Diane… John was found this morning in his flat, dead, from a single gunshot wound to the temple.” Collinson took a deep breath, unable to look at the heartbroken expression on Alex’s face. “We found a note—his death has been ruled as a suicide.” He took a copy of the note and handed it to Diane, who read it and then passed it to Alex, who paled. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Alex took the copy and sprinted from the room, sobbing. Diane looked… almost relieved. 

 

“I’m sorry, Diane,” Collinson said, standing. She took his hand and shook her head. 

 

“I know that you were once friends with John, and that you helped him get his job,” she replied slowly. “I don’t know what made you help him, but whatever it was, you’re free now. We’re all free of him. It’s better this way.” With those words, she left to go console her daughter. 

 

Collinson felt utterly disgusted with the woman and wondered how many times she’d told John that she was glad to be rid of him. The wedding band John had left on the note weighed heavily in the plastic bag in his pocket, but he knew that Diane would probably sell it. Shaking his head, he left the house. 

 

Once back at Section Twenty, Collinson began making funeral arrangements and managing the press. He didn’t want John’s death plastered all over Britain—that would have only served to make John feel worse about himself, had he still been alive. It was one in the morning when his wife finally called and asked what had happened. 

 

A week later, John Porter’s funeral was held. There were four people in attendance—Collinson, Diane, Alex, and the priest who said some supposedly comforting words. It was somber and quiet, and Collinson felt guilt eating away at him as John’s casket was lowered into the cold English ground by the cemetery employees. Everyone but him had gone, and he stayed until the dirt completely covered the solid black coffin. 

 

Collinson made his way back to MI6, but not to Section 20. He placed a single letter on the desk of his superior, and walked away. Afterwards, he went back to the freshly-dug grave.

 

“I did it, John. It was all my fault. Everything in Bazra. You should have been in charge of Section 20. You should have been the one with the happy marriage and family. I should have been the one barely scraping by as a security guard. It was my fault, John,” Collinson confessed, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry, John. I wish that I had come clean on the ship that night. I should have, I know I should have. It was my fault. I can’t make up for it now. If you’re listening, I know that I don’t deserve forgiveness, but please know that I wish more than anything that I could take back what happened that night. You were a good man, John Porter. You died too soon—the world could use more men like you, strong, brave, and honest men, and less cowards like me. I’m sorry, John.” 

 

Collinson felt a hand clasp his shoulder—the same way John had done on the ship in 2003, and he knew that, for once, he had done the right thing. He knew that somewhere, John Porter was smiling.  
*FIN


End file.
